It is being an old silent man –
to see yourself in bronze, to see yourself
in grainy film & know that all that is clear
is the force of light: which bleaches
& then fades into the shadow. Your coat
& your hat & the way
you stand erect still are what
compose you now.
The old man's a photograph now
unaltered, cast, as if
that little set emulsion could be
more than the dear tricks of light
& darkness. It's there, in the shadows
& the lights touching the waves' path.
You watch it. The water
& the many islands in it.